Page 1 of Heirs of the Cursed

PROLOGUE

Two weeks earlier

Beyond Lên Rajya, the pleas of the doomed echoed like murmurs of death.

King Kirus Allencort was tormented by them day and night, their sorrow a relentless omen of impending destruction. He paced back and forth in the large throne room, his darkened eyes set on the windows and beyond. In the city where the gates to the enemy kingdom stood.

But Ro’i Rajya had fallen long ago, and with it, the threat it posed to his empire. All that remained of his enemies were memories turned to dust and stone, for the world no longer dared to speak its name.

Not since the curse had turned it into a land of nightmares.

“See, Father?” The soft voice of his daughter, third in line for the throne, interrupted his thoughts. “We told you everything would be all right.”

The relief among the council members urged Kirus away from the window and toward the open doors, where one of the midwives had just retreated upon delivering the good news. After two long nights of confinement in her chambers, his wife had blessed him with another son. The corners of his lips tugged up in a grin. Sons were more powerful, their magic a weapon for him to wield.

“Annemarie is right, father,” Sirio, his second heir, agreed with her. “Mother has done this six times before.”

Surely, the seventh would be no problem, Kirus thought to himself.

Yet a high-pitched cry of deep pain proved them otherwise.

With a sense of erratic impatience knotted in his throat, Kirus violently pushed aside the servants obstructing his path and left the throne room. He climbed endless flights of stairs, feeling his own muscles stiffen.

Fate had been cruel to him, but the king had made his way in the games of power and risen above all others.

When he reached his wife’s room, he didn’t even deign to knock.

“What’s the matter?” he asked the physician. The elderly man, who froze under the king’s gaze, shook his head in disbelief. Not even the midwives or the apprentice offered him an answer. Kirus turned to his wife. “Demira, what’s wrong!”

In the gloom of the royal chamber, the queen lay on her bed, shrouded in a suffocating silence that was pierced only by the raspy whisper of her own breath. Her countenance, illuminated by the dim candlelight, reflected a mixture of anguish and despair as she held the newborn in her arms, clad with a crumpled, blood-stained cloth.

Demira’s gaze was fixed on the black nature beyond her window, cradling the baby with care, fearful that the slightest movement might undo their child’s fragile appearance. Her hands, so soft and delicate, now tensed, clutching the tiny body against her chest.

The king approached the bed, his eyes widening in surprise upon noticing the reason for her sorrow. The blanket his wife held wasempty. There was no child to admire, no life. Only the remains of cracked stone broken into a thousand pieces.

Just like the curse of stone and shadow had predicted.

“By the Triad,” Kirus mumbled.

“I heard him cry . . .” the queen stammered. “I took him in my arms and listened to his little heartbeat . . . Oh goddesses, forgive me, I have killed our son! I have killed my little boy!”

“You have killed no one, Demira.” The king snatched the blanket from his wife and shook the stone remnants to the ground, eliciting gasps from the midwives who cried in silence. “Not my heir, at least.”

With fury boiling in his veins, Kirus left the room at a stiff, hurried pace. He didn’t need to seek advice from scholars nor ask them the cause of his seventh son’s death—not when hehad been warned of the curse long ago. He’d have prayed to the goddesses for their guidance, if he weren’t so reluctant to leave the fate of his empire in their hands instead of doing it for himself.

The king made his way to the armory tower that was located at the eastern wing of the castle, where the soldiers on duty were relaxed in the lack of danger as they placed bets in a game of cards. They all stood to greet him, rushing aloft and arranging their leather jackets to make themselves presentable before their ruler.

“Father,” greeted Killian, his heir, with a nod of his head. “How can I serve you?”

“I need your best scout and the fastest horse you have, at once.”

“Ramsdean!” the Crown Prince shouted to his men. “Come here!”

A young man no older than twenty-four approached the king. Leonel Ramsdean had never been in his presence before; he didn’t even know that his name might come to have any recognition for Kirus Allencort.

His blond hair was tied in a ponytail, exposing his sky blue eyes which glittered with undesired expectation. Leonel had only recently been promoted to the Royal Army, the most prestigious force in the kingdom. It hadn’t been until now that he feared it to be a mistake he would soon regret.

Clenching his hands into fists, the young soldier tried to control his breathing.

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